


Stay Lady Stay

by TheTiniestTortoise



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Banter, Bob Dylan - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Freeform, One Shot, Songfic, lay lady lay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19457125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: A time travel predicament leaves a very confused cowboy in your care. Your predilection for drinking and making him listen to your music results in some cute banter and one very blushy boah.





	Stay Lady Stay

**Author's Note:**

> I just HAD to take a small break from Blackbird’s to write this thing out; this damn song’s been stuck in my head for a week now and it was giving me very intense soft Arthur feels.
> 
> The song is Lay Lady Lay by Bob Dylan and you can find it here:   
> https://youtu.be/LhzEsb2tNbI

It’s been almost a year, and you still have no comprehension as to how he got here. That’s not entirely right, though; there’s a small sliver, the tiniest glimpse into the event that changed both of your lives, inadvertently tethering the two of you over the vast span of more than a century. A single name is all he has ever really been able to give you in regards to an explanation: Francis Sinclair. 

A man who  _ was  _ a man, and then Arthur thinks he might have been a baby, and then somehow he was a man yet again during their last fateful meeting. And then Arthur was here. Ripped out of the fringes of a new century and thrown one hundred and twenty years into the future by some chaotic and asinine technology or magic or hoodoo, he isn’t the least bit sure what it was, and prefers not to dwell on it too long, besides. He doesn’t fancy himself a smart man, though you’ve learned better by now.

You found him near the tail-end of spring, just after it had finished raining for what seemed like weeks and all the deciduous trees were puffing out and proud with new, green growth. In recent years you’d taken it upon yourself to try and get a bit closer to nature and give yourself an excuse to go play in the woods; foraging mushrooms had become quite a trendy pastime in many rural areas, one of which you inhabited.

And so, one day near the end of May, you’d taken your cute little basket and filled up a backpack with some necessities and hiked off into the woods, to one of your favorite fungus-hunting spots. It often ran you parallel with a lazy river, and on good days you could come home with a bounty of morels and chicken of the woods.

That was what you’d been looking for when you’d heard splashing somewhere off to your left. Thinking it was most likely a deer, you hadn’t paid it much mind. Until the splashing had started being accompanied by rather discordant humming and mumbled singing.  _ That  _ drew your attention. You’d crept through the undergrowth, wondering who the hell it might be; you never saw anyone else out there by that little lazy river.

When you saw him out there bathing himself like it was the most natural thing in the world, you stopped dead in your tracks. And he must have heard the branches snapping beneath your feet, because he’d stopped scrubbing his chest and looked over at you with an expression that mirrored the surprise you felt. You’d started stammering out an apology, but he’d cut you off with a hapless plea.

“‘Scuse me! Just a minute, Miss, please!” He’d waded closer to the edge, giving you a frontal view of that broad chest, beads of water dripping from his golden brown hair and glistening in the sunlight. “I just...I’m thinkin’ I might be a little lost.”

He didn’t know how right he’d been. When you’d finally seen him fully clothed, you’d asked if he was some kind of a Civil War reenactor. He had a gun belt complete with a side holster and two large revolvers, and you didn’t know much about guns, but you knew an antique when you saw one. And you’d thought those ones were in far too good of condition to be real. He’d scoffed, asking right back if your athletic leggings and hiking shoes were some kind of attention-seeking suffragette nonsense from someplace like Boston or New York. You balked, naturally. And then asked him what backwater he’d hitched out of with that patented Down Home country boy accent of his.

The banter was playful and surprisingly easy, and you’d never quite expected that; things being as they were, it usually behooved one to be a bit cautious when confronted with strange men bathing in rivers, but Arthur was different. You couldn’t quite explain it at first; somehow, he just was. It didn’t really start to make sense until he froze in his tracks when you’d led him back to your car, crowing about the horseless carriage like it was something he’d never dreamed of in a million years.

Taking him home was an even bigger shock to his system. Driving through a small suburb, he’d asked how far he’d gone from the state of New Hanover, his eyes glued to the passenger side window; you told him he  was  in New Hanover. Then he’d asked about Valentine, and again, you replied that the town you were driving through  _ was  _ Valentine. He’d been silent the rest of the ride.

You were wary at first; he was very large and had a very intimidating look about him. His hat had a couple bullet holes in it. After some quick research online, you had no choice but to believe the stories he was telling you, though. The grainy old photograph you’d managed to find in a historical collection of the infamous van der Linde Gang proved it. He was the exact spitting image of one Arthur Morgan, Dutch van der Linde’s notorious and extremely capable lieutenant. In a grandiose, cosmic display of irony, he also happened to be the most polite man you thought you’d ever met.

You found out that Arthur liked to cook. He was simple, a steak and potatoes kind of guy, but that was okay: it made him feel better keeping his hands busy. He was still willing enough to try your shoddy attempts at foreign cuisine, and he was endlessly enthralled with takeout. When you’d given him your tablet in a novel attempt to get him to try sketching digitally, he’d cursed up a storm and damn near snapped the thing in half.

He’d gotten despondent for a long time, holing himself up in your guest room with a bottle of whiskey that you graciously went out and bought for him most nights. You’d try to coax him into sharing his troubles with you, but what was there for him to say? Arthur Morgan was a man out of time; this modern world confused and angered him more often than not, and he couldn’t put his old life and his family out of his mind, no matter how much whiskey he drank.

When he’d finally opened up just enough to admit to you that he missed his horse, Boadicea, something fierce, you decided to do something about it. You knew there was a large stable on the outskirts of Valentine that rented horses out, so one weekend you took him out there; Valentine was, after all, still a livestock town at heart. You opted for a full unguided day of riding at Arthur’s insistence that he could teach you anything and everything you needed to know. And he did.

Seeing how he was with the horses gave you an all new perspective on this rough-and-tumble man who’d been spirited up out of the past. He was gentle, calm, tempered; he was in his element. It was almost like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. He didn’t have to say he was grateful. You could see it in the way he smiled privately at the large animals and muttered low and soothing things to them.

You liked to play different music for Arthur. YouTube was a convoluted hellscape of a rabbit hole to him, but you’d coax him into having a couple drinks with you and start playing a few selections from your eclectic iTunes library that you had a vague notion some cowboy from 1899 might appreciate. You’d throw on some Johnny Cash or Neil Young, even Elvis or Doc Watson if you were feeling spicy, and every once in a while you’d catch him humming along, seemingly despite himself.

Tonight was one of those nights. Eight months after you’d found him, and he’d more or less figured out how to use your computer and your smartphone, though he was still ornery about it. It was all an overwhelming amount of information for him. But you’d been an anchor for him in stormy seas, and Arthur was the first to admit he was no sailor. You’d done your best to ease him into modernity with as little kickback as possible, considering the outlandish circumstances. He appreciated it more than you would ever know, but he could never find the words to express just how much your kindness meant to him.

You pick up your glass, a tall one full of whiskey and ginger ale, and take a long sip from it. Fingers skimming over the touchpad on the laptop, you scroll down your list and select a Bob Dylan album. Letting it play, you flop back onto the couch beside him and heave out a sigh. The muted cowbell kicks in, and it seems to catch Arthur’s attention.

_Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed_

_Whatever colors you have in your mind_

_I’ll show them to you and you’ll see them shine_

Arthur sips from his glass of straight Tennessee thoughtfully. He wants a cigarette, but you don’t let him smoke inside the house, so he waits. He doesn’t like going to bars, so this has become your usual routine; the loud electronic music and the presence of so many strange people sets his teeth on edge when he isn’t allowed the reassurance of his guns at his hip. He also does not enjoy the way other men interact with you, though he does not allow himself the privilege of delving into the reasoning behind these feelings.

You glance over, smiling faintly at the way his calloused fingers tap absently at his knee. “You like this?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up a little wistfully. He misses sitting around a campfire, the soft sounds of Javier’s guitar, and the haunting lilt that would come into Karen’s voice whenever she sang ‘Lorena .’ But he likes these times he gets to spend with you; he adores your patience and the unprompted kindness you’ve shown him since you stumbled upon him that day in the river.

He hums an affirmative, falling silent for a few moments. “Wanted to say thank you, again, for gettin’ me that job down at the stable. It’s...real nice, bein’ wit’ the horses...”

You scoff softly. “We’re lucky they agreed to pay you under the table. Would’ve been hell tryin’ to explain why you don’t have a social security number.”

You can’t help smiling when you see the quizzical way he looks at you, the angles of his normally stoic and rugged face softened by alcohol and by his close proximity to you, though you have no idea about that. He has never once shown any romantic or physical interest in you. There have been tense moments in recent months, sure, but your troubled self-esteem tends to chalk it up to the challenge of suddenly having a very handsome roommate.

_Stay lady stay, stay with your man awhile_

_Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile_

_His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean_

_And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen_

You take another sip of your drink, prolonging the eye contact more than perhaps you should. You’ve never seen eyes like his, though; they’re sinfully easy to get lost in. Especially when he graces you with a true smile and those little crows feet around the corners crinkle up. 

The song makes him think of Mary briefly, but her specter dissipates just as quickly as it entered. She is a hundred years away, in a time that no longer exists for him. The only time he has now is here, with you. And he just happens to think you are the smartest woman he’s ever met. With the amount of things you’ve had to teach him, he can only seem to focus on what a massive strain his presence must be.

“Ya know, I’m sorry. ‘Bout all of this. ‘Bout...” He waves a hand vaguely in the air in front of him. “About bein’ such a burden on you, I guess. Ain’t really fair, askin’ you to help me like you done...”

Your brows knit, and you lean forward from your relaxed position. “You aren’t a burden, Arthur. Everything I’ve done, you never asked for any of it. In fact, you’re probably the most stubborn, reticent guy I think I ever met.”

His features drop into a worried frown and he clears his throat, looking down and away.

You sigh, realizing a little too late how that must have sounded. “I just mean...you’re not the type of person to ask for help. Doesn’t mean I didn’t wanna give it...” You lean forward more, angling your head to try and catch his gaze. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do if I was in your position. And anyway, you’re my friend. I, uh...don’t have many, as you may have noticed by now.”

Arthur blinks, holding his glass of whiskey delicately between his fingertips and swirling it just a little. “What you mean? You got what’s-‘er-face there, that gal you play tennis with.”

You chuckle softly, placing a hand on his knee as you lean back again. “Amy? Yeah, I got Amy, sure. Everybody else...well, they all left to go to college as far away from Valentine as possible. And most of ‘em never came back.”

_Stay lady stay, stay with your man awhile_

_Why wait any longer for the world to begin?_

_You can have your cake and eat it too_

_Why wait any longer for the one you love_

_When he’s standing in front of you_

Arthur freezes when your hand lands on his knee. He’s caught off guard, too ensnared in your presence to realize you’ve gotten too close. He thinks the clothes you wear and the way you talk and the way you handle yourself are all endlessly fascinating. He’s known his share of women from living with a ragtag band of nomads for a couple of decades, but none of them was quite like you.

He clears his throat again and takes another sip from his glass. It gives him a chance to look away when he feels his face heating up. “Well, I’m...I’m mighty pleased to be counted as one of your friends, milady.”

Your mouth curls up into an incredulous smirk and you remove your hand from his knee so that you can shove him playfully on the shoulder. “Ah, shut up, Arthur. I’m just about the most boring person on the planet. All I do is work, read books, hang out with my cat and go outside and dig in the dirt when the weather actually lets me.  _You’re_ the  most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He raises his eyebrows in a comically shocked expression. A low rumble of a laugh escapes the confines of his chest and it makes your heart take a little leap; it’s always a rare treat when you can pull a laugh out of him. “Well, I’m sure you seen by now that I ain’t exactly very interestin’, myself. Jesus, what a pair we make, then...” He shakes his head, gazing up at your ceiling.

The corner of your mouth quirks up at his jovial cynicism. It fits with your own nicely, you find. A lot of things about him seem to fit nicely. He’ll sit and sketch or write in his journal while you read, and he adores your cat. He does  _dishes_ . He’s taught you about riding horses and even taken you out shooting a couple times. His temper flares easily, but it’s never been directed towards you. Even Amy likes him, though she doesn’t know the truth about where your roommate really came from. “I think we do make quite a pair.”

He turns then, catching you as you bring your glass to your lips demurely. His jaw works in the low light from the floor lamp in the far corner of your living room. “Yeah...?”

You blink a few times and take a sip from your drink before lowering it to nest in your lap. Maybe it’s the liquid courage that stops you from looking away. Your voice lowers, though it’s unintentional and the implication it invokes makes your face start to flush. “Yeah.”

_Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed_

_Stay lady stay, stay while the night is still ahead_

_I long to see you in the morning light_

_I long to reach for you in the night_

_Stay lady stay, stay while the night is still ahead_

Arthur blinks and seems to stutter. There is something happening; some undefinable feeling in the air between you, now. He sets his glass down on the coffee table, settling his hand on his knee and turning towards you on the couch in a manner that indicates he’s decided something. “You know, there’s...there’s somethin’ I...I been wantin’ to do-“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. You’ve taken the initiative, feeling suddenly brazen in the wake of this big tough man’s bashfulness. You push yourself forward, meeting his lips with your own, tasting the bitter lingering of whiskey still there. His short beard scratches your chin in a very pleasant way.

He only hesitates for a fraction of a second before his large hands are hovering at your neck, fingertips brushing your skin as if you were some delicate flower he could snap in half at the merest touch. Your hand returns to his knee and you settle some of your weight there.

When you pull back, you look up into those blue-green eyes of his abashedly, chewing your lip for a moment. “I, uh...I sure hope that was what you were talking about...”

Arthur blinks and puffs out a mildly astonished little chuckle. You’ve thrown him for a loop, yet again. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, but he finds that tonight, he is brave; his other hand stays at the curve of your shoulder, his fingers winding a few strands of your hair slowly. “Well, I was just gonna ask how you felt about maybe gettin’ a dog for this place, but...”

Your face pales in embarrassment and he chuckles warmly, shaking his head as if to dispel your fears over your own presumptuousness. “But I ain’t gonna lie, I been thinkin’ about kissin’ you for a long time too. Thinkin’, well...you’re just about the best thing I ever seen...”


End file.
